Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown,Of thee, from the hill-top looking down;And the heifer, that lows in the upland farm,Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;The sexton tolling the bell at noon,Dreams not that great NapoleonStops his horse, and lists with delight,Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;Nor knowest thou what argumentThy life to thy neighbor’s creed has lent:All are needed by each one,Nothing is fair or good alone.

I thought the sparrow’s note from heaven,Singing at dawn on the alder bough;I brought him home in his nest at even;—He sings the song, but it pleases not now;For I did not bring home the river and sky;He sang to my ear; they sang to my eye.

The delicate shells lay on the shore;The bubbles of the latest waveFresh pearls to their enamel gave;And the bellowing of the savage seaGreeted their safe escape to me;I wiped away the weeds and foam,And fetched my sea-born treasures home;But the poor, unsightly, noisome thingsHad left their beauty on the shoreWith the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar.

The lover watched his graceful maidAs ‘mid the virgin train she strayed,Nor knew her beauty’s best attireWas woven still by the snow-white quire;At last she came to his hermitage,Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage,—The gay enchantment was undone,A gentle wife, but fairy none.

Then I said, “I covet Truth;Beauty is unripe childhood’s cheat,—I leave it behind with the games of youth.”As I spoke, beneath my feetThe ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,Running over the club-moss burrs;I inhaled the violet’s breath;Around me stood the oaks and firs;Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground;Above me soared the eternal sky,Full of light and deity;Again I saw, again I heard,The rolling river, the morning bird;—Beauty through my senses stole,I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

Deep in the man sits fast his fate To mould his fortunes, mean or great: Unknown to Cromwell as to me Was Cromwell’s measure or degree; Unknown to him as to his horse, If he than his groom be better or worse. He works, plots, fights, in rude affairs, With squires, lords, kings, his craft compares, Till late he learned, through doubt and fear, Broad England harbored not his peer: Obeying time, the last to own The Genius from its cloudy throne. For the prevision is allied Unto the thing so signified; Or say, the foresight that awaits Is the same Genius that creates.

Give all to love;Obey thy heart;Friends, kindred, days,Estate, good-fame,Plans, credit, and the Muse,-Nothing refuse.‘Tis a brave master;Let it have scope:Follow it utterly,Hope beyond hope:High and more highIt dives into noon,With wing unspent,Untold intent;But it is a god,Knows its own path,And the outlets of the sky.It was not for the mean;It requireth courage stout,Souls above doubt,Valor unbending;It will reward,-They shall returnMore than they were,And ever ascending.Leave all for love;Yet, hear me, yet,One word more thy heart behoved,One pulse more of firm endeavor,-Keep thee today,To-morrow, forever,Free as an ArabOf thy beloved.Cling with life to the maid;But when the surprise,First vague shadow of surmiseFlits across her bosom youngOf a joy apart from thee,Free be she, fancy-free;Nor thou detain her vesture’s hem,Nor the palest rose she flungFrom her summer diadem.

Who gave thee, O Beauty!The keys of this breast,Too credulous loverOf blest and unblest?Say when in lapsed agesThee knew I of old;Or what was the serviceFor which I was sold?When first my eyes saw thee,I found me thy thrall,By magical drawings,Sweet tyrant of all!I drank at thy fountainFalse waters of thirst;Thou intimate stranger,Thou latest and first!Thy dangerous glancesMake women of men;New-born we are meltingInto nature again.Lavish, lavish promiser,Nigh persuading gods to err,Guest of million painted formsWhich in turn thy glory warms,The frailest leaf, the mossy bark,The acorn’s cup, the raindrop’s arc,The swinging spider’s silver line,The ruby of the drop of wine,The shining pebble of the pond,Thou inscribest with a bondIn thy momentary playWould bankrupt Nature to repay.

Ah! what avails itTo hide or to shunWhom the Infinite OneHath granted his throne?The heaven high overIs the deep’s lover,The sun and seaInformed by thee,Before me run,And draw me on,Yet fly me still,As Fate refusesTo me the heart Fate for me chooses,Is it that my opulent soulWas mingled from the generous whole,Sea valleys and the deep of skiesFurnished several supplies,And the sands whereof I’m madeDraw me to them self-betrayed?I turn the proud portfoliosWhich hold the grand designsOf Salvator, of Guercino,And Piranesi’s lines.I hear the lofty PæansOf the masters of the shell,Who heard the starry music,And recount the numbers well:Olympian bards who sungDivine Ideas below,Which always find us young,And always keep us so.Oft in streets or humblest placesI detect far wandered graces,Which from Eden wide astrayIn lowly homes have lost their way.

Thee gliding through the sea of form,Like the lightning through the storm,Somewhat not to be possessed,Somewhat not to be caressed,No feet so fleet could ever find,No perfect form could ever bind.Thou eternal fugitiveHovering over all that live,Quick and skilful to inspireSweet extravagant desire,Starry space and lily bellFilling with thy roseate smell,Wilt not give the lips to tasteOf the nectar which thou hast.

All that’s good and great with theeStands in deep conspiracy.Thou hast bribed the dark and lonelyTo report thy features only,And the cold and purple morningItself with thoughts of thee adorning,The leafy dell, the city mart,Equal trophies of thine art,E’en the flowing azure airThou hast touched for my despair,And if I languish into dreams,Again I meet the ardent beams.Queen of things! I dare not dieIn Being’s deeps past ear and eye,Lest there I find the same deceiver,And be the sport of Fate forever.Dread power, but dear! if God thou be,Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me